


Devotion

by atetheredmind



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Drabble, F/M, Fluff, but only for surivval, from season 7, missing moment, some naked cuddling, very tame stuff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-20
Updated: 2018-09-20
Packaged: 2019-07-14 18:48:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,221
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16046426
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/atetheredmind/pseuds/atetheredmind
Summary: After he nearly dies beyond the Wall, Jon wakes up on the ship and goes in search of Daenerys.





	Devotion

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this drabble for Jonerys Monthly Events on tumblr back in August, and I'm just getting around to posting it on here. Gotta do my part to boost our ship's tag.

Jon was sick of lying in bed all day while being force-fed salty fish broth. Davos made for a good hand of the king, but his bedside manner was severely lacking.

“Enough,” Jon said, waving away the bowl as he struggled to sit. The fur blankets piled on his chest fell to his waist, and he shuddered at the slight chill, gooseflesh prickling his skin.

“Your grace,” Davos started, exasperated, as he set the broth aside. Jon bit his tongue to refrain from correcting him; he hadn’t yet had the time or wherewithal to tell his hand about bending the knee to Daenerys. It wasn’t an argument he was particularly looking forward to having.

“I’m not a bleeding invalid,” Jon snapped, though the hoarseness of his throat from swallowing so much sea water weakened his point. “My legs are going to be useless if I can’t get up and walk around for a bit.”

“ _You’re_  going to be useless if you don’t rest,” Davos argued, but in his sharp tone Jon heard his hand’s underlying concern. “You almost died, your grace.”

“But I didn’t,” Jon grumbled. Carefully, he swung his legs over the side of the bed, biting back an expletive as the cold air hit his prick and balls. Resigned, Davos fetched his clothes for him. They weren’t the same garments in which he’d taken an unplanned dip into the icy Northern waters, but the trousers fit well enough as Davos helped him into them. He felt as wobbly and as useless as a newborn fawn learning to walk, having to lean on his hand for support, but he accepted the help without complaint.

Jon was able to slip the tunic on by himself, at least. There was a vest made of leather and horsehair he could layer on top for warmth. A Dothraki vest, from the looks of it. They were aboard a Targaryen flagship, after all.

“Where’s the queen?” he asked, absently rubbing his thumb over the vest, the coarse hair sliding against his callused skin a momentary yet comforting diversion.

“Above deck, last I saw her,” Davos answered, his expression grim. “It might be too cold up there for you, your grace.”

Much like the broth, Jon waved off his warning, already moving toward the door of his cabin in his eagerness to get on deck. “We’re far enough south now. I need some fresh air.”

With an aggrieved sigh, Davos followed him up the narrow, creaky stairs. Jon didn’t have to look behind him to know Davos had his hands out, ready to catch him should he fall backward. Already his legs felt stronger, however, just being able to get up and use them. Davos had told him he’d been asleep for four days, before he’d finally awaken—to find Daenerys at his side. He hadn’t seen her since their talk, however, and he’d lain in bed for three more days before he’d grown restless. They’d reach Dragonstone soon, and he didn’t want to dock before talking to her once more, before they were obligated to resume their respective roles and the customary distance that separated them.

The breeze that caressed his face was salty and tepid, a welcome relief to the dank chill belowdecks. Briefly, he closed his eyes to savor it, to cherish yet another chance at life he’d been granted. He was more grateful for this reprieve than he had been in the past, and he suspected there was a particular reason why, though one he wasn’t fully ready to examine just yet. When a rolling wave lifted the stern, he swayed with the ship and opened his eyes at the gentle pressure of Davos’ hand on his shoulder.

This time, he smiled at the man’s caution. “I’m all right,” he assured him. As he craned his head around, nodding at the crewmates manning the rigging who looked to him in surprise, Davos read his thoughts.

“She’s at the bow, I believe.”

Davos’ ability to read Jon’s eagerness might have been embarrassing if Jon wasn’t so exhausted just from the trip above deck. With a nod, Jon headed in that direction. The black Targaryen masts overhead flapped in the wind, but otherwise the seas were smooth, a fact Jon was thankful for as he managed not to stumble on his way up to the queen. She stood on the forecastle with her back to him, hands gripping the gunwale. Her hair was down as it had been in his cabin, whipping in the breeze, and she rocked lightly with the waves. She looked like the figurehead of a beautiful woman carved into the prow, steady and solitary, guiding the ship home.

When Jon realized Davos was intent on following him, he shot him a look over his shoulder. “I’m fine, Ser Davos. I’m not planning on taking another dive into the water, I swear.”

Davos shook his head and retreated, and Jon crossed the rest of the way to Daenerys. As he stepped up beside her, she glanced at him. Shock registered on her face, and she turned to him sharply.

“Jon.” Her nostrils flared in alarm as her eyes perused him. “What are you doing up here? Ser Davos said he would watch you—“

“Don’t be angry with him. He tried to stop me, but I couldn’t take another bloody minute of being in that bed,” he said easily, though a surprising tightness in his chest lingered at her familiar use of his name. Not ‘my lord,’ not ‘the King in the North,’ not even the more stilted ‘Jon Snow.’ He liked how his own name tasted on her tongue.

She sighed. “How do you feel?”

“Like I nearly froze to death.” He cracked a tiny smile, but she frowned at him, unamused, and shook her head.

“You’re incredibly exasperating. Tell me, do you always seek out ways to injure yourself?”

“I don’t generally have to,” he said plainly. “Death has a way of finding me all on its own.”

She stared at him, strands of silver-gold caressing her cheek. The moment between them was fraught, but the urge to reach out and tuck the silky hair behind her ear was powerful. To resist, Jon braced his hand on the gunwale, right next to hers. His fingers twitched, recalling the feel of her hand in his.

Finally, Daenerys blew out a breath and clasped her hands together. “Are you hungry, my lord?” she asked, gentling her tone. He already missed the previous familiarity. “I was about to take a light meal myself, if you would appreciate something more substantial than broth.”

He hadn’t realized how hungry he was until she mentioned it. His stomach felt hollow, and the gentle rocking of the ship was beginning to nauseate him. “Aye, I would. Thank you.”  _Dany_. He bit his tongue. He didn’t know what had possessed him to address her so intimately the day before. It had felt right, though. To comfort her, when she’d lost something so great and so irreplaceable—all for his sake. He would have given her anything in that moment, more than just the promise of the North, if he’d thought she would have taken it.

She didn’t touch him, but she stayed close as they walked across the ship. He felt her eyes on him every few seconds, watching him obsessively.

Her concern was touching and, truth be told, a bit intoxicating. Not that he had any real doubt of her feelings now, not after she’d flown in on Drogon to save them at his urgent solicitation, not after he’d  awaken to find her waiting vigilantly at his side for gods know how long. But for now, it went unsaid, and they continued to dance around each other, as if that moment between them in his cabin had not happened.

Their journey for sustenance led them belowdecks to the mess. A spread awaited them, laid out on the table: salted fish, hardtack, dried olives and hard cheese veined through with mold. It was a poor meal, compared to the more extravagant delicacies he’d enjoyed on Dragonstone, but his mouth watered all the same. Crew bowed to Daenerys before making themselves scarce. Alone, Jon slipped into a chair, settling down heavily; it was bad form to sit before the queen did, he knew, but the brief walk across the ship had winded him, not that he would admit it out loud. Daenerys didn’t chastise him or cut him a cross look, however. Not that he would have expected it of her; she was far different from every other royal he’d ever encountered.

She took a seat beside him and began to heap food onto his plate. His face warmed from pleasure and embarrassment at the simple domesticity of the action, and he started to protest until she shot him a quelling look. “Eat,” she urged. “If we’re going to come face to face with Cersei Lannister, I imagine you’ll need all of your strength back.”

In silence he swiped a dried olive from his plate and popped it into his mouth, chewed, swallowed. It was enough to trigger his appetite, and soon he was slapping slices of the cheese onto the hardtack and finishing it off with a forkful of salted fish. He ate slowly, knowing he would make himself sick otherwise. He’d seen starving Wildlings retch up a simple meal of stew simply from eating too quickly after too long on an empty belly.

Daenerys didn’t eat, instead watching him in contemplative silence. Soon he became self-conscious of her eyes on him. “Not hungry, your grace?”

She frowned at him in thought. “Ser Davos wasn’t exaggerating, was he?” she asked instead. Her eyes dropped to his chest pointedly, and he went stiff. “He meant it quite literally when he said you took a knife in the heart for your people.” It was no longer a question.

His mouth suddenly dry, Jon swallowed, stalling. Of course she’d seen the scars; he’d known they must have been on display for anyone to see when he’d woken up stripped of all his clothes. It just wasn’t something he ever wanted to discuss or dwell on, truthfully. He hoped to never talk of it, if he could help it.

Noting his reticence, Daenerys said, “You don’t have to tell me what happened, if you’d rather not. I can imagine what happened to you was traumatic. I just…” she trailed off, her already soft voice tapering into uncertain silence. But there was understanding in that silence too. Compassion, and, somehow, a shared knowledge.

“I was the Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch,” he heard himself saying, surprising even himself. Her eyes cut to him in keen interest, though she kept quiet as he spoke. “Frankly, I don’t know that I was ever fit for the job. It never should have been mine. I was too young, too naive. Too many people hated me for it. But, selfishly, I wanted it. I enjoyed it, for a while. I thought I was smart, that I was fair and just when I needed to be. I thought I knew best, and I had hopes that I could make the Watch what it used to be. I suppose I had all the arrogance and young idealism of a lord’s son. Even his bastard son.” His smile was wry and self-deprecating, but her eyes only softened in response. He swallowed again.

“But I learned there were greater concerns than the wildlings, greater threats to us all. The free folk weren’t our enemies like I’d been told all my life. They were just trying to survive like the rest of us. Trying to outrun the Others. When I saw the Army of the Dead for myself, saw the absolute destruction and devastation they left behind them, what awaited us all, I knew we would have to unite with the free folk if we had any hope of surviving. Clans and houses didn’t matter anymore, only the living. So as Lord Commander I made the decision to let them through the Wall. Some of my men disagreed with me. They didn’t know the real danger, the real threat. To them, I had betrayed my vows to the Watch. To them, I had become the threat. So they killed me for it.”

It was strange how easily he could speak of it, though it pained him still. Daenerys stared at him, mystified. He knew what came next—this was the hardest part.

“Then…how are you here?” she asked in a whisper.

“Would you believe me if I told you a red priestess brought me back?” he asked, deflecting with staid humor.

“Yes.”

Her answer was so quick and resolute, he was momentarily stunned speechless. She didn’t look at him as if he were mad. Bemused, he shook his head.

“ _That_  you’ll readily believe, but not my tales of dead people walking?” he asked. He meant the question in jest, but she continued to regard him earnestly.

“I’ll believe anything you tell me, Jon,” she said. “You’re the most honest man I’ve ever known. I see that now. I trust you.”

He didn’t know what to say to that, his throat closing with unexpected emotion. He ate another olive to delay his reply as he thought, but she saved him the trouble. “This red priestess. Was it Melisandre?”

He jolted at that name. “How do you know her?” he asked suspiciously.

“She came to me. She was the one who persuaded me to send a raven and arrange a meeting with the King in the North.” Her brow creased pensively. “She spoke of a prophecy. The prince who was promised. Or princess. She said she believed both you and I had a part to play in this prophecy.”

Jon’s expression soured. “Melisandre believes a great many things, and she’s been wrong about many of them. Deadly wrong. I don’t know what’s real and what’s not. I don’t know why her god brought me back, or if he even did. Don’t let her fill your head with delusions of grandeur, Daenerys. I’ve seen firsthand what it can do to a person, and at great cost to everyone around you.”

His tone had sharpened in warning, but she smiled faintly at him, her eyebrow arching ever so slightly. “Do you think I’ve made it as far as I have by letting just anyone stroke my ego?”

“No,” he agreed. “That’s not you.”

“She was right about you, though,” Daenerys said, leaning toward him. “I think this is exactly where you and I were meant to be. Together.”

He held her eyes, wondering at her bold declaration. But she meant together in this war, of course. Fighting side by side. Nothing more. Did she?

Suddenly, he was hit with a strong sense memory. Sweltering heat, clammy skin, body-racking chills. The agonizingly sweet slide of her body along his and the silk of her hair on his chest. For a moment he was paralyzed, his skin warming at the fleeting memory alone. Or was it a dream? Just a torturous figment of his imagination? No, it felt too real, too hazy in its recollection for it to be just a trick of his mind. He knew he could imagine far more vivid and illicit illusions than that.

Her brow furrowed as she took in his face, a perturbed moue curving her delicate lips. He opened and closed his mouth. “Did you…” But what could he say?

Another memory hit him then.  _“You have to wake up, Jon. I won’t let you die. I can’t lose you too.”_

His eyes searched hers. “Did you…lie with me? When I was unconscious?” he asked clumsily and immediately regretted his forwardness when her cheeks darkened. Abruptly, she sat back in her chair. “Sorry. I just…I thought I remembered something…” It’d been a dream, that was all. The foolish dream of a dying man.

“Forgive me,” she said, surprising him. She couldn’t quite meet his eyes. “It was the only way. You were so cold, you barely had a heartbeat. You were near death, and you needed to be warmed immediately. If I overstepped—I’m sorry. But I couldn’t let you die.”

He stared at her stupidly. “So you did.”

The line of her jaw set stubbornly. “It was Tormund’s idea.”

“Tormund?” He didn’t even realize the wildling had been there on the ship with them.

“He said the best way to warm someone is with skin to skin contact. He said he’d done it many times beyond the Wall.”

“Oh.” Jon was beginning to understand now. He hadn’t dreamed it after all. The queen—Daenerys had lain with him, naked as he’d been. And he’d been too bloody out of it to even know it at the time. “You saved my life.”

“Yes, well.” She pressed her hands together in her lap. “It was either going to be me or Tormund who did it, and he was half undressed before I realized—“ But she stopped herself short. Unbidden, a smile stole across his lips.

“You thought I might prefer  _you_ do it?” he suggested. Gods, he was actually teasing her.

She lifted her chin, even as another blush stole across her cheeks. “I couldn’t possibly know what you would prefer, my lord,” she said primly. “All I know is, Tormund might be kissed by fire, as he put it, but  _I_ am the blood of the dragon.” Her eyes glinted. “And dragons are fire made flesh.”

“Is that so?” he asked gruffly, amused. She tilted her head.

“Tell me, Jon. How do you think I got my dragons?”

He mulled this over. It was a question he’d pondered for a while, as he assumed everyone did. But he hadn’t the nerve to ask before now. “I admit I’ve been rather curious,” he said. Daenerys didn’t respond. Instead she reached a hand out to the lit tallow candle in the middle of the table and held it over the flame. Alarmed, Jon called out before he could think better of it, jerking forward in his seat. “Dany!”

But she didn’t react, not even as the flame licked against her palm and up between her fingers. Her expression was placid, unaffected, and he gaped, waiting for her skin to blister and burn.

After a moment, she pulled her hand away and offered it to him. Amazingly, her skin remained unmarred, smooth and creamy white. His lips parted, but he had no words. When he lifted his eyes to her, she raised her eyebrows. “Do you see now?” She smiled at his gobsmacked look. “Did you think my title of the Unburnt was mere hyperbole?”

Clucking her tongue in good-natured chastisement, she stood from the table and, with that same hand, gently touched his whiskered jaw. “Please. Eat as much as you can. Then I must insist you get some rest.”

With that, she left him alone to finish his meal, but he found he was no longer hungry. Not for anything salted fish was going to sate, anyway. On a pained groan, Jon dropped his head into his hands.

One thing was for sure: If he ever succeeded in getting the queen naked again, he was damn well going to be wide awake for it the second time around.


End file.
